I hate air travel; I find it one of the most stressful activities that I have to face up to. It starts with the bookings which take ages to make, and if you make a mistake, the change is costly. Then there is clearing the calendar, making arrangements to get to the airports, having enough cash on hand, credit cards which you know will be acceptable at the destination. Decisions to be made: how long before the flight leaves do I need to be at the airport, do I need to make allowances for traffic snarl ups along the way? How long will the queues at check-in and security and customs be and how long will I take to find my gate? Do I have a boarding pass; which pocket did I put my passport away in? Will I have an aisle seat for the long hauls, will my luggage get lost? On and on my worries churn; a personal psychiatrist would be helpful for me to have as a travel companion!
Yet there actually are redeeming features for me about international travel. I have a few proclivities of which my close friends are well aware: assertive women, expensive perfume and Islay scotch. I satisfy the first desire through the cabin staff that has that ability to bring my submissive nature right out of my shell. The uniforms, their kindly yet firm way, their sense of authority, their willingness to provide guidance; I submit to them willingly and dream of what might be. Duty Free is my personal haven for my perfume and scotch indulgences.
I walked around the perfume stands, spraying sampler sticks with scents from my favorite houses, holding four or five stick between my fore finger and thumb, splaying them as if they were a winning hand of cards. Around and around I drifted in an exotic cloud of fragrance, sniffing the samplers alternately, savouring their scent, delighting in the erotic bouquets. A decision made at last: a bottle of the Dahlia Noir from Givenchy, a flask of Black Opitum from Yves Saint Laurent, a set of samplers from Gucci.
Then, it was into the whiskey shop. Indecision! Should I take the Talisker Dark Storm which is only available in duty free outlets, or should I settle for a Laphroaig or Bowmore? Perhaps one of each? The prices in duty free are so reasonable! Yes, that seemed to be the right thing to do.
Ah, the joys of traveling light! There was plenty of room to pack it all into my cabin luggage. It would be easier to carry and out of harm’s way. Reluctantly, I packed up and made my way to the gate. The trans-Atlantic flight was always a bore and crowded, but at least I had something to look forward to indulge myself in when I arrived home. And perhaps I would have a pretty hostess to lust over and dream about on the seemingly never-ending flight.
Elianne was our hostess and she was all that I could have ever have wished for: refinement without pretension, elegance without affectation. Her fair complexion was set off by the outfit she wore; on others it might have looked like a uniform, yet on her it exuded style. She had silky blond hair that fell to her shoulders in dramatic bangs, framing cool green eyes into whose depths I wanted to sink. Her black, heavy framed glasses might have looked clunky on someone else, yet set on Elianne’s fair and refined face, they added a touch of glamour, a tantalising hint of severity. Her thin lips went from pursed to a sensual smile in nano-seconds, lighting up the cabin and radiating warmth.
I thought that she took an instant shine to me, but perhaps it was my over-active mind. I imagined that her hand lingered on my shoulder for just a moment extra as she reached down to check that my seat-belt was fastened. I was intoxicated by her scent: sparkling florals and sleek, sensual woods; a fragrance that was unmistakably Estee Laude. A parting tap on my shoulder before she moved on; frisson as her fingers brushed the naked skin of my neck, and her scent that lingered in the air for a few magical few moments after she was gone.
The arrival corridor seemed endless. I dragged my cabin luggage behind me and trudged down what seemed to be miles and miles of linoleum, following the other passengers towards the customs and immigration hall, seeming to fall further and further behind with every step. My feet ached; I wished that I had not let sexy win the battle over common sense; the clicking of my heels seemed to taunt me, the painful balls of my feet chided me, reminding me of my vanity with every step.
I was all alone when I turned into what I seemed to be the final corridor. I wondered at first if it was my eyes playing tricks on me! Elianne was standing at one of those faceless doors that dot the walls of every airport corridor, holding it open and looking at me with a concerned look. She seemed so compassionate and sympathetic; I could have burst into tears on her shoulder right there and then.
“Come with me Catlin, let me help you with your bag.”
I had no option really; she took it from me, ushered me through the door into another short corridor, and led the way to another door that had an EMS symbol painted on the wall above the frame.
The Examination Room
It was a most unusual arrangement and I had no idea why I was here. The room was set up like a standard doctor’s office consulting room – an examination bed, a desk and a plain, metal table that was perhaps three or four feet long.
Elianne heaved my bag up onto the table and then turned to confront me. Her eyes had lost that compassionate look and her tone was noticeably more business like.
“Would you like to fill in your Customs Declaration Card now, Caitlin?”
This was an order, not a request.
Confused but compliant, I sat at the desk and filled in the form: nothing to declare, not over any limits, signed and dated. I picked it up and handed it to her, watching the look of incredulity grow on her face as she took it all in.
“Let’s have your bag opened, Caitlin. I could have sworn I saw you in the duty free!”
As strange as the setting seemed, as bizarre as I felt it was to be having this conversation with an air hostess, I complied. Her manner discouraged argument and I felt my own submissive behaviour flood to the front. I knew that I was in trouble and had seen the adverts discussing penalties for false declarations. With trembling fingers, I unzipped my bag and flipped the lid open. The bottles of scotch and perfume lay there right at the top in full sight, staring at me accusingly, causing my stomach to churn.
She said nothing, but one by one, as if in slow motion, she unpacked the bag, lining the offending items up side by side. She stared at them, then looked at my declaration form, stared at them again, and then focused on my ashen face.
“What else have you not declared Caitlin?”
I shook my head and whispered: “Nothing. I am so, so sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.”
Elianne moved across to the examination bed, and flicked out the stirrups. She stood facing me, one hand resting on a stirrup, the other on her hip.
“You realise what will happen to you when you go through customs and they catch you, don’t you Caitlin? They will go through your luggage with a fine tooth-comb, checking the seams, looking for what else you may have hidden.”
She paused for effect, probably taking delight in my distress, punishing me with the suspense.
“…and then Caitlin, they will bring you to a room just like this, perhaps even this very one. They will make you strip, Caitlin. Ever heard the expression ‘Squat and cough’? That will be just the start. You will be asked to lie down and spread your legs, feet in the stirrups, and you will be subject to an internal search. Perhaps you are carrying contraband, drugs, and diamonds. Perhaps you are a mule?”
The tears had started coursing down my cheeks; I could feel myself having a melt down.
“Please don’t,” I pleaded hoarsely. It was worse than I could have imagined; how had I gotten myself into this mess?
She looked at me, stared into my eyes.
“There may be a way,” she said, throwing out a lifeline. “I do have some latitude, some ways of dealing with cases like yours.”
“Anything, please!” I begged.
“Anything? You do realise that what you have done is rather naughty?”
Naughty? True, but the word seemed strangely inappropriate for an adult; the consequences for being naughty were beyond contemplation.
It was when she took a short leather strap out of her handbag that I realised that she did actually mean naughty!
I watched in disbelief as Elianne settled herself in the chair, and with the strap in her left hand, she patted her knee with her right. Her rings glittered and the marquise cut diamond showed beautifully on her slender hands. I was mesmerised and bewitched, wondering for just an instant how many bottoms had been spanked by this enigmatic woman.
Her hand snaked out and wrapped around my wrist, vice-like in its strength, unrelenting in its pressure. In what seemed like an instant, I found myself forced across her lap like a schoolgirl, my skirt flipped up, my panties tugged down. I could never have dreamed how painful a strapping would be! There was none of the warm up one reads about in erotica, none of the gentleness I could have hoped for.
Elianne started at the top of my bottom and methodically worked her way down, laying down stripe after stripe of pain until she reached my thighs. I am sure that some of the strokes must have crossed, but I didn’t care; all I was conscious of was the awful fire that just seemed to build and build, driving all thoughts out of my mind except the wish that it would mercifully stop.
I was conscious of my drumming feet, of my howls of pain, of the tears that ran freely down my cheeks and dripped onto the linoleum floor. I tried at times to struggle free, to wrest myself off her knee, but she was simply too strong. I have tried to think back as to how she could have pinned me so tightly; perhaps with her legs, perhaps it was just with her arms, but all of these solutions defy simple logic. In the end, I think that I simply submitted, knowing that I was in the wrong and really was a naughty girl that needed to have her bottom spanked.
The lashing did stop eventually; it seemed to have gone on for an eternity. I felt her hand dacing across my burnished flesh, tracing the welts and soothing the pain. I felt like a chastened child as Elianne helped me to my feet and onto my back on the examination table. My bottom burned beneath me and the heat seeped between my thighs. Elianne was vey gentle as she pried my legs apart, fanning the flames with her finger tips, breathing oxygen into the crucible with her sensuous lips.
I lay back exhausted but aroused as her fingers glided up and down, circling my clit, offering pressure without pain, arousal without shame. I could hear my own raspy breathing, throaty and measured, its cadence increasing with the rhythm of her hands. She was looking directly into my eyes when my climax came, that ready smile of hers playing across her delicate, thin lips.
It is a smile that will be forever etched in my mind; I didn’t know then quite what it really meant. It wasn’t a smile of lust or passion, arousal or pleasure. It seemed to be saying something like “I have you where I want”, a smile of the conqueror, a modern day Cleopatra at work.
I watched in disbelief as she walked across to the basin and washed her hands in a most clinical way. She sat down at the desk and ran her eyes down my declaration form, and then wrote something along the bottom with a pen from her purse.
“There, that should get you through customs. Tell them that I inspected your luggage if they ask.”
I was still lying there stunned as the door closed behind her, my body as confused as my mind with the pain and the pleasure.
I read what she had written on my declaration form during the walk to customs: “Inspected – Elianne”
The customs agent ran his eye down the form; a grin seemed to want to break out when he came down to her endorsement.
My heart seemed to stop.
“Well, do you have anything to declare?” he asked.
I assumed that this was protocol, that Elianne’s endorsement was gold.
“No, I have nothing to declare.”
The customs agent took his red pen and scrawled a code across my declaration.
“Red route, Ma’am – they will check your luggage there.”
He looked at the person standing behind me in line.